


Moments in Vibrant Hues

by robocryptid



Series: Fandom Trumps Hate Gifts [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fandom Trumps Hate 2020, Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24372865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robocryptid/pseuds/robocryptid
Summary: Life in Overwatch isn't easy. There is always something more to do. So when Jesse gets the rare opportunity for peace and quiet, he refuses to take it for granted.Written for Fandom Trumps Hate 2020.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Series: Fandom Trumps Hate Gifts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1759759
Comments: 22
Kudos: 213
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	Moments in Vibrant Hues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gradientdescent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gradientdescent/gifts).



> For gradientdescent, who wanted some soft, gentle McHanzo for their [Fandom Trumps Hate](https://fandomtrumpshate.dreamwidth.org/) gift!

Hanzo smells _green,_ for lack of a better word. He smells like vegetation, herbs. Springtime. Jesse’s aware of the irony, given their line of work. They are surrounded by death and violence, and he smells like nothing so much as rebirth. 

Jesse’s used his soap and shampoo before, feeling guilty even with Hanzo’s permission, because just one item has to cost more than everything in Jesse’s bathroom. The smell clings weirdly to his skin and he doesn’t like it much. It’s all wrong on him, but on Hanzo, it’s nice. 

It cloaks the coppery scent of blood and mingles pleasantly with Hanzo’s sweat. It tangles up with the smell of the cigarettes he pretends he doesn’t smoke. He buys them and makes Jesse carry them so he can maintain the self-deception, which is so much more endearing than it ought to be. The scent has seeped into Jesse’s bed too, lingering in the sheets and pillows. It keeps him company when Hanzo’s on a mission without him.

Sometimes Hanzo smells like rain and ozone, and that definitely isn’t in any of his toiletries. It trails after him some days, especially when he is angry or in the midst of battle or when his mood has turned bleak. Fortunately Jesse doesn’t smell any of that now. 

All there is now is the springtime smell, and with every breath, the slow creep of Hanzo’s hair into Jesse’s face. A deliberate puff of air rids Jesse of the strands in his mouth, then he nuzzles closer, nose pressing into the back of Hanzo’s neck. It’s probably counterproductive to the hair issue, but Hanzo is pleasantly warm with sleep, and he shifts with Jesse, taking one long, deep breath before he settles again. 

Three days ago they were in Tunisia to investigate a potential Talon outpost, and the whole mission went to hell. Everything tasted like gunpowder and blood then. Jesse’s eyes burned from all the smoke. By the time they were finished, there was sand lodged in his mouth, dry on his tongue and gritty between his teeth. It took a full day to scrub off the grime — the lingering stench of singed hair and fabric, the concrete dust from the explosion embedded into his pores, the blood under his nails, the salt from sweat and sea air that stuck to every part of his body. It took another day to stop feeling the phantom straps of his body armor digging into his shoulders even once he took it off. Then one more day for the wariness to lose its edge, for it to feel safe to let down his guard again. It will be the same again soon enough. Maybe next month, maybe next week, maybe as early as tomorrow. Here and now, he can have a moment of peace. 

Thanks to missions like _that,_ Jesse’s learned not to skimp on certain things. Just like Hanzo’s got his expensive soap and shampoo and a dozen other things, Jesse has his soft sheets. The first thing he did when he got to Gibraltar was swap the scratchy standard issue bedding for the highest thread count he could find. It’s a matter of comfort, and more than only the tactile kind. It’s a reminder that there _is_ somewhere in this world that’s safe and comfortable, that not everything has to be tactical. 

It’s also probably the reason Hanzo spends a lot more time in Jesse’s bed than the other way around. He’s stolen more than one of Jesse’s shirts too, because Jesse buys his civilian clothes the same way he buys his sheets: by touch above all else. It’s hard to be mad when one goes missing, though, because seeing Hanzo in his shirt makes his insides light up with fondness and this funny, primal sense of satisfaction, like he’s marked his territory. 

As if guided by the thought, Jesse’s hand smooths along the cotton tee Hanzo’s wearing, soft under his fingertips and warm with body heat. It would be easy to spend the whole day this way. Hanzo shifts again, murmuring a nonsense complaint in his sleep as Jesse twists away from him to turn off the alarm. If it never goes off, there’s no reason to move. Jesse pulls the covers tighter around them both. 

When he wakes again, hazy sunlight is filtering in through the slats that make up the sorry excuse for a window here. Hanzo moves, and Jesse draws him closer. 

“What time is it?” Hanzo mumbles.

“Doesn’t matter.” 

“Jesse—”

“Mm, nope. Sleep. We got the day off.”

“We can’t spend all of it in bed.”

“We can and we will.”

Hanzo laughs quietly. With every small jostle of his shoulders, Jesse’s more and more awake. He would like to resent it, but it’s more fun to curl a leg over him, tighten his grip and feel Hanzo’s body go slack in exasperated surrender. 

“You are a terrible influence.” Hanzo’s voice is half muffled by the pillow, but the smile in it is obvious enough. 

“Just what I like to hear.” The problem with trying to stay in bed now is that they’re both wide awake. No matter how resigned Hanzo is to imprisonment between Jesse’s limbs, it can’t match the stillness of sleep. “You ruined it.”

“However will I make it up to you?” Hanzo asks flatly. 

Jesse splays his fingers across the warm skin of Hanzo’s chest, grinning as he says, “I’m sure I’ll come up with somethin’.” There’s a tension to Hanzo’s stillness now, anticipation in the twitch of his stomach when Jesse’s hand slips lower. It’s certainly one way to keep them occupied a little longer.

Jesse winds up on his back soon enough, Hanzo over him with his hair hanging down, a hungry smile on his face. It’s one of Jesse’s favorite sights in the whole world, right up there with the Lightning Field or sunrise over the Gulf of Mexico. He could stare for hours, fingertips exploring the sharp edge of his cheek or the shape of his brow, but Hanzo has never had the patience for that. He steals what’s left of Jesse’s rapid breaths when he descends for a kiss. They doze again when it’s over, Jesse’s head pillowed on Hanzo’s chest this time, lulled by the steady drumbeat beneath his ear. 

Despite his best efforts, they’re still out of bed at a mostly reasonable hour. He got Hanzo to laze around until almost nine, though. Most days, they’re both up before the sun, so Jesse will take the win. 

At least Hanzo’s willing to indulge him elsewhere. They shower together in a stall that’s too small for two. In a move that’s half desire to touch and half innovation born from their cramped quarters, they take turns washing each other’s hair. When it is Jesse’s turn, Hanzo’s scrubbing makes his scalp tingle, and he might get weak in the knees. 

They take long enough that the lazy swirl of arousal intensifies into need again. Jesse kisses Hanzo under the spray and crowds him against the wall, sucking the water from his slick skin while Hanzo reaches a hand between them. They stay until the water runs cool and goosebumps begin to prickle on his arms. Jesse would feel bad about it, but despite Hanzo’s affinity for high end products, they’re both usually the perfunctory types. Five minutes, in and out. He figures Mei and the environment can forgive it running long this one time. 

In the kitchen, he assigns Hanzo to coffee duty while he whips up breakfast. It’s simple, eggs scrambled with some chopped peppers and onions leftover from last night’s dinner prep, but it’s savory and filling and Hanzo eats it with a smile creeping around the corners of his mouth, which is all Jesse really needs. He can count on his original hand how many lovers he’s had the luxury to cook for. The spare time and security required to do it are things he makes an effort to appreciate. If it means Hanzo gets to feel secure too, that’s even better. 

The Watchpoint has fallen into disrepair over the years, and there are a thousand tasks calling Jesse to attend to them before the dishes are even clean. There are several shelving units that need to be secured, walls to patch, wiring to fix, vehicles out in the hangar in desperate need of repair. There are less physically demanding jobs too: taking inventory, filing, organizing what goes where. But his only mission today is to do as little as possible and make sure Hanzo does the same. 

He makes one concession to the nagging sense he needs to _do_ something. Out in the burgeoning vegetable garden, where he drags Hanzo to finish their coffee, he plucks a few weeds while Hanzo checks the soil’s moisture. Otherwise, they sit in mismatched chairs to bask in the pleasant morning, the temperature still bearable before noon and under cloud cover. 

Few things in their lives get to count as normal, but this is _their_ normal: danger and thrill on some days, hard, honest labor on others, and when they can carve out the time, a day of nothing but each others’ company. If the to-do list continues to trespass in the backs of their minds, it’s only because they know what it takes to achieve this kind of peace, and they won’t take it for granted. Jesse stretches his legs out in front of him, takes a sip of coffee, then reaches out to find Hanzo’s hand already waiting for his.


End file.
